It was Enough
by Fadesintothewest
Summary: Who was Fingon's wife? How does that mesh up with a Maedhros/Fingon narrative. This is one attempt.


**It was Enough**

Fingon smiled, observing his wife dancing, spinning lightly on her feet to the wild music. Faerie, Fingon sighed, she was the essence of it. How she missed her people, the dancing, the closeness. Faerie, it is why he loved her, it was why it was enough. It was big enough to allow him to keep Maedhros, but deep down, he knew that Lindirë did not care about Maedhros because she too kept a love, though what or who it was, he was not sure. He did not need to know. More than that she kept the love of her father in her heart. He was more than Fingon could ever be. Her father was more than any of the Noldor or Sindar could aspire to be. She would never depart the lands of her father, her people, in life or death. This was as it was between them, their love enough for each other, enough for the constellation of passions to coexist, enough for Fingon to love Maedhros with all his soul, for their souls were committed to the same place. Though Fingon tried not to think on it often, it grieved him to know that Lindirë's soul was not bound to him, not bound to the same confines. It is why they could love each other so much in life, in Endórë, because at the end of it all, they would part ways.

)()()()(

She loved him enough. But she was not his nor was he hers. He loved her enough. And that enough was more than most knew how to love. Some would say it was a gift that their souls could love so deeply and fully, but they knew it to be a curse, a tragedy of comic proportions. They, the lovers that for all to see were bound in a mad love. True it was mad. But it was only enough. Only enough to last them through their lifetime. In death however…

In death, she belonged to her people, to this land, to Endórë as he called it. In death he belonged to those Halls over the Sea, to be remade. They had also been given the choice to travel to the Halls of the Dead, and though her heart desired it for she feared the unknown, she would never abandon her people, the choice to die and become Spirit. She would return to her father, in whatever form that would be, even if only memory. She was made of something after all, of spirit, and when the body ceased that Spirit had to go somewhere. Her mother would go to her father as well. To her own parents, to her brothers, her sister. Lindirë would also take that same path, the same path her sisters would take, the same path her children would take. Though she knew this in her heart, she dared not tell Fingon for he would hurt knowing his child would not return to him. Ereinion was not meant for the Noldor though he would be their king (this she knew), he was not meant for them in death. Only in life, and he would not return.

)()()()(

Fingon, turned his mount abruptly, the horse's head fighting back against its master, the bloodlust beginning to kindle in the horse's heart, but Fingon willed the mount to turn. He was going to war. She was returning to their son with the Falathrim where some of her people also gained refuge. Others chose to fight with their Sister's man. Fingon earned that respect, at least, the respect of the Kindi, the Avari. Fingon's blue eyes burned with an intensity of fire, if fire could be its opposite of ice. Where Maitimo was the fire that kindled the depths of his soul, Lindirë was the river that bound Fingon to Endórë. Through her, the vastness of Endórë took shape, breathed its enchantment, its feyness into Song. She took his breath away, her fierceness, her strength, her failings and sorrow. She had his love this spry Faerie with the wild hair that Noldorin convention wanted to tame. Fingon understood in that moment he would not see her again. An overwhelming sense of dread overtook him: what had he done? How selfish had he been, taking this being as a wife, tying her to him knowing his Soul's love was bound to another? The thought he would never, in all eternity, lay eyes on her again, smell the sweetness of her scent, hear her silver laughter, it was more than he could bear. He shrunk before it, a dizzying fear overtaking him. This was more than marching to war. That he could bear, he knew it well. His own death caused him not the same dread, but the _unknown_, that strangled him.

Quietly, she turned to Fingon, whispering, "It is enough."

Fingon's horse quieted, the wind died down, and the silence of the land shrouded them in a strange peace. Fingon's dread resided, replaced by a melancholy, a song spun of gentle waves rolling up on a shore and the breezes playing in the treetops. It was a song of her people, the Kindi, the Refusers. Nay, not Refusers, Fingon corrected himself, for Refusal was through the eyes of the Valar, chains long cast aside by the rebellious Noldor. Fingon and his people came to understand their wisdom, even if they were jealous guardians of their ways and wholly suspicious of the brutish Noldor.

Again she spoke to him, her voice loud, "It is enough." There was an iron determination in it, thick like steel yet bendable like a tree. It rung out in the courtyard, the echoes like incantations of Power, filling the gathered elves with kind courage, the same courage that led Fingon to seek her as a wife, for he had to marry as the Noldor's Crown Prince. But Fingon too was wild and he _refused _to be dictated on this matter and so heeding his father, Fingolfin, Fingon pursued Lindirë. For both elves, Fingon and Lindirë, it was a truce of sorts, and for Fingolfin, it was enough.

"It is enough," Fingon repeated, though all who gathered in the courtyard heard their King's strong voice, they knew his words were meant for her, their queen, their Faerie queen that wielded a green magic to calm their fears, assuage the prickle of the unknown. Though her coming to Hisilómë, called Hithlim by the Sindar, was met with much trepidation and distrust, her fire and fearlessness earned her the respect of the Noldor. Their love she also won, but most of all, she found allies to protect her people for a time. And for a time, Fingon and Lindirë forged a fey love, a love born of loss, and the desire to bend destiny to their well. It was enough.

Lindirë raised her hand to her lip, blowing her husband a kiss. Fingon placed his hand over his lips, feeling the ghost of her kiss upon it. Slowly and steadily Fingon turned his mount around and silently led his men to war, to their deaths. Knowing he would have one last moment to see her, Fingon turned to find her standing, steadfast, a beacon, her hand raised in farewell. Fingon turned and his company disappeared behind a hill.

It was enough.


End file.
